The Knights of the Black Earth (14 page)

“In about six
hours,” he said, speaking softly, under cover of music from a small orchestra, “your
Madame President will start to feel extremely unwell. About an hour after that,
she will be in excruciating pain and convulsions. In twenty-four hours, she
will no longer be able to move her lower extremities. In forty-eight hours, she
will be dead.”

The Little One
pulled a handkerchief out of one of the raincoat’s pockets, handed the cloth to
Raoul.

“Thank you, my
friend,” he said gravely, and began to wipe his lips.

Baejling’s jaw
sagged. “How—”

“The lipstick,”
Raoul said simply, taking extreme care to remove the last vestige. “The poison
is in the lipstick. One of my favorite techniques. I wear a protective base
coat underneath and I am quite careful, of course, never to ingest any myself.
But it is always wise to take precautions. I am drinking the antidote for it
now.”

He consumed the
contents of the vial, then examined his lips critically. Certain that every
trace of the golden, poisoned lipstick was gone, he returned the mirror to his
purse.

The Little One
held open a plastic bag marked
hazardous
waste
. Raoul deposited the handkerchief and the empty vial inside. The
Little One snapped the bag shut, thrust it into a pocket. Baejling and Krammes
watched the proceedings in dazed disbelief.

Raoul reached into
his purse, drew forth a second vial of the clear liquid. He held it out.

“What’s this?”
Baejling eyed it suspiciously, refused to touch it.

“The antidote,”
Raoul said with a sly smile. “Administered anytime in the next twenty-four
hours, it will save Madame President’s life. The choice is yours. She will not
be in such extreme pain that she cannot negotiate. You might, perhaps, be able
to strike a bargain with her. The antidote in exchange for an extended trip on
her part to a distant moon. If the lady proves recalcitrant”—Raoul shrugged—”you
let her die.”

He pressed the
vial into Baejling’s hand. The man’s fingers closed over it nervelessly.

Krammes clutched
at him. “This gives us a chance! We don’t have to be murderers—”

“Unless she
refuses. Or orders us shot anyway. The safest course to follow would be not to
tell her. Let her die.”

“A difficult
decision.” Raoul was sympathetic.

Baejling stared at
the antidote, then lifted his haggard gaze to Raoul. “Damn you.”

Raoul smiled sweetly.
“Our work is guaranteed or your money will be cheerfully refunded. And now, if
you both will excuse us, we have a transport to catch.”

“You won’t be able
to leave. There are no transports for off-world—”

“Ah, I have the
distinct feeling that one will soon be making an unscheduled departure. Not to
worry. We can take care of ourselves. Farewell. It’s been lovely. Give me a
kiss good-bye, Dolf.”

Shuddering,
Baejling backed up a step.

Laughing, Raoul
turned on his golden heel, sauntered leisurely through the crowd. Taking his
time, he paused to drink a glass of champagne. The Little One trotted doggedly
along behind.

“So very
civilized. Didn’t want to do the dastardly deed yourselves, did you?” Raoul
raised his glass in a toast to Krammes and Baejling. “Here’s to what you kiss
next, my dears.”

Assess the
advantages of taking advice, then structure your forces accordingly, to
supplement extraordinary tactics. Forces are to be structured strategically,
based on what is advantageous.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

“What the hell’s
keeping that damn Loti?” Xris demanded. Switching on the screen in the center
of the table—a screen that provided a view of the large bar area of the Exile
Cafe—he scanned it for some sign of the flamboyantly dressed Adonian.

“Relax, will you,
Xris? He’ll make it. He said he wanted to say hello to a few old friends from
back when he used to work here. You didn’t say it was urgent, you know,” Harry
reminded him. “This
is
just a planning session, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Xris
was roaming restlessly around the room. “It’s just ... I want to get on with
it, that’s all.”

The others present
exchanged glances, raised eyebrows, asked silently what was up. Most
specifically, all looked to Harry Luck, who had been with Xris and the Mag
Force 7 team the longest.

Harry shrugged his
shoulders, made a face. He didn’t have a clue, indicated silently to the rest,
You know as much as I do.

Each one of the
members of Mag Force 7 had received a coded transmission to meet on this date
in the Exile Cafe on Hell’s Outpost—a desolate chunk of rock that could barely
be dignified with the term “moon.” Drifting on the fringes of the galaxy, Hell’s
Outpost was made unique by the Exile Cafe, described politely as “a meeting
place for professionals in search of employment.” All the galaxy knew, however,
that the Exile Cafe did not cater to the sort of professionals likely to scan
the vid classifieds.

But even if one
was not looking to hire or to be hired, the Exile Cafe was an excellent meeting
place. A large bar area located on the ground floor provided decent liquor and
edible meals. The waiters and waitresses were attractive and would provide
their own form of entertainment for a price. Weapons could be worn but not
used—on penalty of immediate death. This was a place of business and those who
came here were serious.

Rooms in the Exile
Cafe were guaranteed private by the management, who boasted that not even the
Royal Navy took such precautions to keep identities concealed and conversations
secret. The user paid for such luxuries, of course, but the people who
frequented the Exile Cafe could generally afford it.

And thus the
members of Mag Force 7 who were present were wondering what they were doing
here. Planning sessions were usually held in Xris’s condo on Alpha Gamma. Mag
Force 7 was a mercenary team, handpicked by Xris himself. They were licensed by
the government, had a well-deserved reputation as being the best in the
business. They had done jobs for the topmost of the top levels in government. Xris
was on a first-name basis with the Lord Admiral, Sir John Dixter, and had once
saved the life of the fleet adjutant, Mendaharin Tusca. It was rumored, but not
known for certain, that Xris had once been secretly employed by Her Majesty the
Queen.

Mag Force 7 didn’t
need to take on shabby or dirty little jobs. And though they took care to keep
a client’s business secret—if that’s what the client wanted—they had never
before taken the extraordinary precaution of meeting at the Exile Cafe.

Xris took another
turn around the room. Harry—whose specialty was piloting every craft that flew,
floated, or ran on wheels— watched his boss in perplexity. The two had been
together a long time—years, in fact. Other members in the original team had
come and gone. Died on the job, some of them: Chico, killed by the Corasians on
Shiloh’s Planet; Britt dead in the tunnels of a Corasian slave labor mine. Lee
had quit the team to get married. Harry was the only one left of the old bunch.
He’d never seen Xris—usually as cool as the metal he was mostly made of—
nervous, on edge.

A lilting voice
came floating through the commlink. “It is—” A pause, as if the person speaking
had to think about it.

“Raoul,” said
Harry, grinning.

“Raoul,” decided
the voice. “And the Little One.”

Xris switched the
screen from the bar area to the hallway outside the meeting room.

Raoul, resplendent
in an eye-piercing fluorescent green unitard, smiled blissfully and waved to
the cam.

Xris activated the
controls, admitting the Loti, the raincoated Little One, and a heady wave of
perfume.

Raoul wafted
inside the room. “Xris Cyborg,” he said gravely, gliding over and giving Xris a
light kiss on his left cheek. “I am extremely pleased to see you again. The
Little One also extends his most gracious compliments.”

The raincoat shook
itself, like a dog readjusting its fur.

Xris, accustomed
to the typical Adonian form of greeting, submitted to the Loti’s kiss with a
good grace, but only after he’d taken a close, scrutinizing look at Raoul’s
lips. Not that Xris feared Raoul would deliberately poison his boss, but the
fact that he was wearing lethal lip gloss occasionally slipped the Loti’s
drug-fogged mind.

“Peach-flavored,
nothing more.” Raoul flicked his tongue over his orange-tinged mouth.

Xris grunted. “You’re
late.”

“I am? For what?”
Raoul was astonished.

“The meeting. I
didn’t bring you here to celebrate old home week,” Xris added wryly.

“Meeting . . .”
Raoul cast a vague glance around the room, suddenly noticed there were other
people present. He gave them a charming smile, fluttered his fingers at them. “The
team assembled. I am extremely pleasured to see you all again. The Little One,
as well. We are sorry to have kept you waiting.” He turned to Xris with a
reproachful air. “We were not informed that our presences were required in a
timely and immediate fashion.”

“The meeting was
called for thirteen hundred hours—”

“But you didn’t
tell us we had to
be
here by then,” Raoul pointed out with an aggrieved
air. Green eyelids—to match his unitard—fluttered. “I do not see how this can
be my fault, Xris Cyborg.”

Xris opened his
mouth, shut it on what would have been a caustic remark. The last thing he
wanted to do now was hurt the Adonian’s feelings. The thought of Raoul’s face,
streaked with tears and green eyeliner, was too much. Besides, what Raoul had
said was true. The Loti operated on his own time system, which bore little or
no relation to any other time system currently in use anywhere in the galaxy.
Xris had never quite figured it out. When timing was critical to the operation,
Raoul and the Little One were always where they were supposed to be at the
precise second. But to casually mention to Raoul that he should be attending a
meeting at 1300 hours ...

Raoul’s eyes were
starting to shimmer. “In the days of my former employment in this location—due,
if you will recall, to the untimely and most treacherous death of my late
former employer, Snaga Ohme—I made a considerable number of acquaintances here
at the Exile Cafe, all of whom were quite pleased to see me again. But if you
would have told me, Xris Cyborg, that you had called a meeting of the team—”

“Very well, Raoul,”
Xris interrupted testily. “It’s all my fault. I apologize for you being late.”

“And I forgive
you,” said Raoul graciously.

He brushed his
finger lightly across the cyborg’s flesh-and-blood arm, then minced across the
room to take a seat with the rest of the team, who were now grinning at each
other.

Xris waited with
exemplary patience for Raoul to settle himself. When the Adonian had his legs
crossed and his hair arranged on his shoulders and his lip gloss reapplied and
when the Little One had plopped himself down on the floor and pushed the fedora
back to reveal the bright, gleaming eyes, Xris called the meeting to order.

“As you’ve
probably all guessed by now ...” He paused a moment to take out a twist and
light it, then had to wait further while Raoul put a scented handkerchief over
his nose. “We have a job. It’s going to be a tough one. Dangerous .. . and
something more.”

He took a drag on
the twist, blew smoke. The LED lights winked on his arm, emitted a quick series
of beeps. He glanced down, made a minor adjustment, looked up. “There could be
some possible ramifications. Legal ones. I’m telling you all this up front, so
that if any one of you wants to drop out, you can go with my blessing.”

“What are you
getting at, Xris?” Harry asked. “Hell, we’ve all broken our share of laws
before now.”

Xris nodded, held
the twist in his hand between his thumb and forefinger.
“Local
laws.
This job is going to require us to break into a top-level, secret, secure Royal
Naval military facility.”

“Shit,” Harry Luck
said, almost reverently.

The Little One,
curled up at Raoul’s feet, stirred and shivered beneath his raincoat. Raoul
murmured something, patted the empath soothingly on the fedora. The Loti
regarded Xris with a peculiarly intense and suddenly focused stare that was
extremely disconcerting.

Xris shot a glance
at him and the Little One, frowned. “Whatever information that damn empath is
draining off me, he better keep it under his hat.”

Raoul coughed
delicately into the handkerchief.

Xris, glaring,
took a last drag on the twist, snubbed it out, and tossed it in a receptacle.

“You’ll be paid
double,” he went on, “but if anything goes wrong, we’re going to have our tails
caught in one hell of a tight crack. I’ll take full responsibility. But I want
you to know what you’re in for. So”—he started to light another twist, caught
Raoul’s eye, and thrust it irritably back into the case—”that’s it. If you want
out, leave now. The less you know, the better.”

The others
exchanged uneasy glances. It wasn’t that they were worried about the job. They
were more worried about their boss.

“I forgot to
mention one more thing,” Xris went on before anyone could say a word, “this is
a kill job. I’m going to be taking out a man—woman. I’ll do the killing myself.
It’s sort of legal. There’s been a warrant out for his arrest for years. But
essentially I’ll be taking the law into my own hands. If anything goes wrong,
you could be charged with accessory to murder.”

“Is it permitted,
Xris Cyborg,” Raoul said quietly, “to ask the name of our client? Who is the
one hiring us to kill this person?”

Xris took the
twist out, began to chew on it. “Me.”

“Ah!” Raoul
breathed a deep sigh. Settling back in his chair, he clasped his hands,
sparkling with rings, over his shapely legs. “And is it also permitted to ask
what crime this man and woman have committed that you have marked them for
death?”